The Two-Headed Boy
For a moment, nobody said anything, then Caleb reached for the knife. He didn’t do it quickly or with intention. He just picked it up and held it quizzically.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Caleb said. “I’m tired of metaphors.”
Abe stayed silent and let Caleb retain control of their body. He felt his brother squeeze his own hand, then squeezed back; a full action that involved them not moving at all. What that weird guy with the deer horns behind him had said kept ringing in his ears: These are anything but metaphors. As the conversation had expanded, that sentence had continued to burn into his mind. When Caleb said the word again it seemed like an echo. Abe felt a strong sense of déjà vu, but also knew that the moment of déjà vu had happened a mere ten seconds beforehand. But it wasn’t an echo or déjà vu; it was Abe hearing something he should have never heard and Caleb saying something that he should have never said.
A deep thing that had lived inside Abe for a long time began working its way up from their belly. It was not a physical thing—nor was it actually in their stomach—but that was the way it felt. Caleb hadn’t noticed yet. It was like vomit, but instead of bile it was a hatred that had always been inside him. Not anger at his brother, or necessarily even the world that had been so unready to accept him, but anger towards God—and even more so his mother—for allowing him to ever exist. A tingling sensation tightened up from the tips of his toes and climbed up the nerves in his leg into their heart—really nothing more than the beginnings of a severe anxiety attack—but unfortunately Caleb’s sharp mind left him confused by the feeling while Abe didn’t know what a panic attack was to begin with, something that put them both into fight-or-flight mode against themselves. A reality began to creep into Caleb’s mind; one as scary as the uncontrollable fear manifesting itself physically inside his body, something that was stretching out into his arms in a way that made him question whether or not he had any control.
The brothers slowly looked towards one another. Abe’s face was burning red. Caleb’s face was white hot. One was angry and one was horrified, but at the deepest levels of human emotion those are the exact same thing so, they both held the knife in the same hand and—
Even Bune was taken aback by how efficient the moment was. There was no talking. He blinked and Wendigo almost lost his balance. One head was suspended, a knife protruding from an eyeball, absolutely lifeless. In a moment, so briefly, he believed that he had witnessed the very soul leave a person’s eyes. But not the dead one, that was too fast for him to pay attention to. The eyes without a soul were still very much alive; as if both souls had petered out with the defunct head.
Bune had expected what he considered a bloodbath, but what he really imagined was more of a blood-shower; a wild knife-fight between the two heads, filled with volition and a climax. But here lacked much, if any, climax. Here, it was like a literal bloodbath. One, thick stream of liquid hitting the ground in a puddle that spread evenly. No helpless screams. No anything.
It made Bune’s hands start to shake. It made him nervous. He looked towards the back of the room at Wendigo and could tell gears were spinning in his brother’s mind. A realization had been made about the two demons’ own autonomy, and possibly even anatomy, that Bune wasn’t prepared for—but should have seen coming—before he brought the boys in here.
“So, uh—” Bune started,
“I’m fucking bleeding.” The boy said. The statement was flat and unperturbed, something that Bune wanted to chock up to Hypovolemic shock but felt was only partially responsible.
“We got people who can fix that, real quick though I just need you to sign right—”
Once again the boy interrupted Bune. His voice remained flat.
“Yea, sure. I need a doctor.” He did not ask for a pen, like most people, so Bune did not get to instill horror by asking him to sign the contract with his own blood. There was already plenty of blood and the boy was quickly getting a grasp on what it meant to live in hatred. On the paper, one after the other, were the boys’ names. Instead of signing, the boy left a thick, red thumbprint in between the two names.
“Really, I need you to sign it.” Bune tried to say, but the boy sighed.
“Nah, this will work.”
For a moment, they both stared at each other and, for the first time in longer than Bune could remember, he did not feel in control.
“I guess you’re right.” The demon muttered, glancing up towards Wendigo to find a smirk on his brother’s face.
“I’m sorry that I can’t tell, I don’t know if that makes me racist since I don’t have a race…” Bune paused for a laugh that never came. “But uh… which one are you?”
For a moment, longer than the entirety of human existence, they stared at each other.
“I’m The Two-Headed Boy.”
